


Sleepwalking

by joan_waterhouse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Oblivious, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joan_waterhouse/pseuds/joan_waterhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Wizards sleepwalk there's no telling where they'll show up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepwalking

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/speedpr0nz/profile)[**speedpr0nz**](http://community.livejournal.com/speedpr0nz/) [picture prompt #8](http://community.livejournal.com/speedpr0nz/535.html).

## Sleepwalking

When the dreams first started Harry blamed the summer heat. This was also why he acquired the habit of sleeping naked. The following nights he felt decidedly cooler; the dreams remained.

Then he noticed that he must have wandered around in his flat at night without waking up. In the mornings he found half empty glasses of milk in the kitchen, the fridge open, and bruises on his shins that corresponded with the height of the new coffee table.

So he bought shackles. It was a perfectly logical decision. He didn't want to unconsciously roam around at night, hence he needed to be restrained. Briefly he had contemplated to use handcuffs, but for some things, things he frequently did before falling asleep, he needed both hands. And these things enjoyed a very high rank on Harry's list of priorities. Not least because they helped him fall asleep. He had a theory that the dreams would be less vivid. It was worth a try.

Harry settled down for the night, his right ankle chained to the bedpost. In a well practised motion his right hand started to stroke his cock. His left hand reached behind his hitched up left leg.

In his mind these weren't his own fingers at all but long and lean ones instead. They pressed tentatively against his hole. They wanted to push inside but didn't dare. Not yet. First they had to tease him. It was part of the game. And it wasn't his hand that slipped up and down his cock. In his mind it was a warm, wet mouth. Sucking. There also was a shock of white-blond hair. But he didn't want to get into this right now.

He focused on the fingers. The beautiful fingers that finally pushed, pushed, pushed. And he concentrated on the warm, wet mouth that sucked, sucked, sucked. Now the fingers thrust even deeper. They knew exactly where to press. Oh, but they couldn't reach! He had to move his right leg. Cold, hard metal cut into his ankle. It felt better than it should have. But he still needed to move his leg. The fingers pushed and pushed but couldn't reach! He just _had_ to move his leg. The mouth grew hotter. His ankle hurt. He had to fight against it! Let the long, lean fingers reach deeper. Oh, yes, there! And still he fought against the restraint. Because there _always_ was a restraint. God, yes, harder! And he'd _always_ had to fight against him. Always against _him_. Oh, and the mouth was so, so hot; and the fingers so, so perfect! "Oh, Draco. Draco, please!"

Sweat-soaked he fell back onto his bed. This was disconcerting. He had fantasised about _him_ before, yes, but never had he moaned his name. Tomorrow Harry would have to analyse this. If he had time. Now he was too exhausted and so he fell into a restless sleep.

~~~

The first time it happened Draco just snorted, pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders and fell asleep. It was most likely due to all the stress he had at work with this git, that was all.

The second time unsettled him. More drastic measures were in order. He dressed and Apparated into London. There he found himself a quiet, brown-haired bloke with dull, brown eyes and released some tension.

The third time Draco couldn't dismiss so easily. This tendency of his brain to serve him pictures of Potter in the most inopportune moments had to cease. He fastened his silk, green bathrobe with a determined knot, grabbed a bottle of Firewhiskey and stepped outside into the garden.

The lawn felt soft beneath his bare feet. Almost an hour he wandered around thinking, every now and again taking a swig of Whiskey. There really was only one solution, he finally realised. He had to manage to come without thinking of this bespectacled tosser. It couldn't be that hard! All his life he had enjoyed entirely Potter-free wanks. Why change it now?

On the far end of the garden, right next to the stucco adorned building his family called their "garden shed", stood a low stone bench, which was surrounded by blooming rosebushes. This, Draco reasoned, was the perfect, completely non-Potter-related place for a wank. Nothing could remind him less of Potter than sweet rosebushes.

So he sat down. The bench felt cold through his flimsy bathrobe, but this wasn't about being comfortable. This was about his sanity! He emptied the last of the Firewhiskey and determinedly unfastened his belt.

Draco closed his eyes and began to slowly caress his balls. _Don't think about Potter,_ Draco thought and thought about Potter. This was harder than he'd imagined. Maybe if he didn't forbid himself to think about Potter but instead commanded himself to think about someone else. Someone specific. But about whom?

Every image his blasted mind produced had something to do with the git! Let's see, there had to be some handsome Slytherin blokes beside Draco, surely!

Blaise was handsome. There was no getting around the fact that this was a bit creepy, Blaise was after all his best friend. But still, Blaise wasn't Potter. So Draco gripped his own cock and imagined Blaise. Blaise, who didn't have messy hair. Blaise, who didn't have green eyes. Blaise, who would stroke him with well manicured fingers.

No. This wasn't working. Blaise' fingers would be far too soft. Draco dismissed him and tried to think of someone else, his right hand all the while keeping a languid pace.

He had to admit that it probably hadn't been his brightest idea to drink a whole bottle of Firewhisky in just one night, because suddenly his brain presented him with an image of Potter that surpassed all his previous fantasies. It was just too good to ignore. Sod the fact that it was Potter. This was hot.

Built like a Greek god Potter stood right in front of Draco. His white skin contrasted sharply with the dark blanket he'd slung around his shoulders. And Draco had to be very much mistaken if these weren't shackles around Potters ankles.

Potter just stood there and stared. Mouth agape, as if he saw something he hadn't expected.

Draco realised that he'd increased the speed of his right hand. The last of his good intentions flew over board. He could start with the non-Potter wanking tomorrow.

Then this image of Potter did something unexpected. It stepped closer, fell down on its knees and leant forward.

This was the moment Draco registered that it wasn't a fantasy at all. This was the real thing! Potter knelt between Draco's legs and appeared to contemplate giving him a blowjob. Later Draco would stoutly deny it, but this was just too much for him and he came promptly, very hard, all over his own chest.

What followed was awkward silence. Draco figured he had to say something. _What the hell are you doing here?_ sprang to mind or maybe even _Thank you!_

"Um," he began, still too dazed to think properly. And then this messy haired Gryffindor arsehole Disapparated!

~~~

Harry awoke horny as ever. Sometime in the night he must have torn the chain of his shackle. Strange, his ankle didn't even hurt that much. Bits of last night's dream seeped into his consciousness. _Less vivid_ was not the phrase he'd use to describe it. So he could scratch that theory. Pity. It wouldn't have changed the order of his priorities anyway, but it would have been a nice justification.

Harry got up to take a shower. He planned to start the day with his favourite thing. And use both hands. Justifications be damned.

When he returned to make his bed there lay on his worn, white sheets two small, green blades of grass.  


~~~ end ~~~

  



End file.
